Maybe not today
by Achromos
Summary: It only took one finger, one trigger, to make a monster.
1. Today we lose

**Author's Note:** I wrote this thing in a frenzy, half-asleep and confused by the intensity of the images in my head. I don't know what this is, but it will probably stay a one-shot. (Even though I'm writing on a follow-up, wtf.) Idk. Waaah D: Please tell me what you think. Because I cried.

* * *

Middle Earth should never have seen progress like it had in the last century. Thorin didn't even want to imagine what it had to be like for the elves. He himself had been born to fires warming chambers carved out of stone by the strength and handicraft of dwarves. He had been born to furs and pelts warming cold nights. He had grown up to toys made by skilled and loving hands. Nowadays there was cold, unyielding steel, spat out of machines that produced the material for beds and tables as well as for weapons, ammunition and other means of destruction. Children – Mahal forbid, his own nephews – grew up to know woollen blankets, toys of steel, made to harden their innocent hearts into cannon fodder. Thorin hated it. He hated sounding like the old and embittered veterans that survived what almost destroyed the whole of Middle Earth. He was one of them, one of those who remembered. He remembered the days when you could see green fields of emerald grass, a lake – shining golden-red in the setting sun – and a dark, never ending forest from the balconies of Erebor. But Erebor was lost, and so was Thorin.

They had praised the dwarf who made the discovery that would bring them to their knees. No one remembered his name, or if they did, they were too ashamed to admit so. It had been meant as a source to power the forges, to _create_. But there was always darkness to be had, especially in the lithified hearts of dwarves, and they used it to _destroy_ instead. The field of grass Thorin remembered was gone that night, and it had taken less than a command. One thumb. One single thumb that pressed one single button. In the end it mattered not. Threats arose from the forest, the elves were afraid and angry. Thorin remembered the Elvenking's shining eyes, flaring with fear and fury. In the end it mattered not. The forges kept thumping and roaring, and a king decided it was time to go to war. There was always more to have, and he wanted it. But there were always others who wanted too, who wanted even more. No matter what progress their power had brought them, no matter what other weapons had been birthed out of the sheer destructive fire, they couldn't kill what they themselves created, the monster they nursed until it killed its creators.

It only took one nuclear explosion to kill thousands of dwarves in an instant. Thorin survived, and he asked himself many, many times afterwards, what he had done wrong to deserve this. Years and decades later he still wished to have died in the inferno. He wished there hadn't been kind, pale hands that hauled him out from under debris and rubble. He wished he didn't have to see shining eyes look at him with both fury and pity. It took him less than a heartbeat to understand the fury, after seeing the dark, never ending forest ablaze with golden-red fire. However, it took him more than a month to understand the pity. Because that was when the first dwarves began to die from the radiation of the bomb. They fell around him, like dried leaves in autumn. They left him, wishing to have died in the explosion that had made him king in an instant.

He felt old. Death all around him made him old. The iron crown on his brow made him old. But in his chest thumped a young, scarred heart, fearing and yearning for the moment it would give up its steady beating. He held his head high, however, and he led his people through charred lands, wading through ash and corpses. The only comfort was a pair of shining eyes full of fury and pity, for the elves of Mirkwood were just as homeless as the dwarves of Erebor. They didn't exchange any words. All it took was a nod, a wave of the hand, a small, joyless smile to understand eachother.

The day his sister gave birth to his nephew Fíli, Thorin discarded his old armour and clad himself in one of the lightweight suits the Elvenking had brought him. They had weapons to fend for themselves now. Guns, mostly. The dwarves had developed them to shoot more than once or twice, and since each of their warriors they lost to orcs instead of the radiation meant that the enemy had guns and ammunition too, there was just no use for heavy plated armour anymore. It was all about speed and luck now. The next time they confronted a battalion of orcs, Thorin fought alongside the elves, shooting his pistols into masses of ugly, contorted and by radiation contaminated flesh. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Thranduil, wielding a pair of large rifles, as deadly and beautiful as shards of shattered glacier ice. After the battle, Thorin – lightheaded and flushed with energy and fear – was stupid enough to thank Thranduil. _For everything_, he'd said and patted the elf's elbow, because he couldn't reach his shoulder.

Of course everything went downhill after that. They had survived years in the wild, wandering and never finding a place to stay – _we will not house those tainted by radiation_ –, but always on edge and fighting not to break down from sheer exhaustion and weariness. But one day it had to be too much. One day their luck had to run out. One day the orcs weren't alone, but there were trolls as well, huge beasts, whose skin was thick enough to shield them even to bullets. And of course they were wielding machine guns.

They cut through their ranks like a farmer might cut through wheat. It was only a matter of time until they reached two kings, fighting grimly side by side, guns blazing. It was only a matter of time until one of them got hit. Once, twice, too many times to count.

Thorin didn't even hear Thranduil's screams, when the troll tore the dwarf from the elf's side. There was an explosion behind his eyes, in his head, in his body and his veins. Not even blissful darkness came to his rescue.

_Maybe Thorin should have hated Thranduil for withholding fire. Maybe he should curse his name forever, maybe he should swear on his ancestor's sweet, sweet blood to wipe out Thranduil for his cowardice. But he didn't, because he understood the cold burning fear he'd seen in those shining eyes. It only took one finger, one trigger, to make a monster. In the end Thorin admired Thranduil for his strength, even if it meant burning agony for himself._

What was the suffering of one, if not the suffering of many? Thorin's wounds were severe; he knew he was dying. But cold and kind porcelain hands held his, and merciless, shining eyes kept his own gaze steady, willing him to live. Screaming and thrashing, Thorin cursed him for not ending his suffering. _One bullet more, what difference does it make?_ Apparently it made every difference, to Thranduil.

And in the end Thorin saw something else than fear, fury or pity in those shining eyes. Maybe Erebor was lost, but Thorin wasn't anymore. Not as long as two kings stayed together. Two against the rest of a destroyed, burning world.


	2. Hopes and Endings

**Author's Note:** So I did make a second part to this, and even more tears fell in the process of writing this. But I hope the end is acceptable.

Enjoy!

* * *

Because the dwarves of Erebor and the elves of Mirkwood had been denied hospitality by any and all kingdoms of elves, dwarves and men alike – they had even sent missives to the Shire, but they were all returned unread –, they were called the _randirin_, the Wanderers. Wherever they went, they took their belongings with them, and they never stayed long. From Erebor they had sent for help from the Iron Hills first, but were denied. They went southward then, bypassing the burnt and destroyed borders of Mirkwood, and with their host of hundreds of thousands of soldiers, men, women, elderly, wounded and babes it took them almost three years to reach the borders of Gondor, where they were rejected the second time. Rohan denied them next. And then Lórien – which made Thranduil spit curses and threats like a viper for weeks afterwards.

They were quickly running out of options then. Fíli was a wee lad of three years, and Dís was pregnant again. Thorin feared for her, more than anything. There were so few dwarf-women, and their travels had weakened even the strongest of them. He feared she might not survive the birth, as her husband had not survived their last orc-skirmish. And while his heart froze with fear for his sister, he didn't want to imagine the glacier that covered Thranduil's heart, after the loss of his son Legolas. It was shocking how little it took to kill an elf. One bullet to the head, clean shot. Those old, wise and regal beings, dying just like the commoners that stood by their side. They were being abandoned, and Thorin sealed his ears to the wails and screams of the Elvenking, as he mourned the death of his own immortal flesh and blood. But that had been years ago, and today only Thorin saw the ice in his shining eyes that used to soothe his aching heart.

* * *

Thorin knew he was lost, when he began to yearn for something he could never have. Something his only true companion refused to accept – out of stubbornness, fear, pride, he knew not. For years they had suffered grime in the crevasses of their clothes, blood under their nails, broken bones and broken hearts, and while those shining eyes still glistened, bright as stars in the ever black night, Thorin felt his own body go frail and weak. Oh, he knew the curse of immortality, of age and weariness. He saw and heard it often enough, whenever Thranduil graced him with words that fell heavier than corpses. He didn't speak much anymore after Legolas' death, and Thorin accepted his silence. But certainly it was not too much to at least wish for this strength that kept Thranduil's spine straight, even in the face of his own people's death, the carapace that kept his body from showing what horrors it had survived.

When silver streaks of age started showing in Thorin's black mane, Thranduil followed them with his fingertips, almost reverently, as if he'd found a new star to name. Strange lilting words fell from his lips, and when Thorin asked him what he'd said, those shining eyes only twinkled, far, far away from him, basking in memory. It took Thorin a new streak of silver hair to coax it out of his fellow king.

_It is silver, like starlight and salvation. It is the colour of the light I imagine the Two Trees to cast, the light of the Silmarils. It is a colour long lost to my people. You who are graced with it wish it away. It saddens me that you refuse this gift._

And that was when Thorin realised they both wanted what neither could have. He dreamed of ships sailing to the west, of eternal beauty and peace, while this dream had already been shattered to Thranduil. There was no rest or peace for him in the fabled land of his people, so he dreamed no more.

_I would still carry the scars of Middle Earth, and no place can wash them off me._

Or so he thought. Thorin, who knew that this land was only a dream to himself, wished at least for his friend to find peace there. For a friend he had been, through hardship and death, destruction and stagnation. When there was no one to lean on, a cold hand would steady him. When the darkness seemed impenetrable, a pair of shining eyes would soothe him. When he'd stood at Mandos' doors, his words coaxed him back to life. Long he had been angry with him, for not letting him go and find peace in death's final embrace. Until he understood that Thranduil, too, was alone. Now more than ever. That they only had each other, bound and united by loneliness. And Thorin remembered what else he'd told him that day, when he spoke of silver and salvation.

_But it also saddens me, for it reminds me that your time is limited. One day you will find peace, of the kind that I so selfishly kept from you. The kind I may never find._

They didn't speak to each other for months after that conversation – Thorin doubted Thranduil spoke at all. Whenever Thorin looked into those shining eyes, he felt guilty. Until his guilt turned into determination. He would make sure that Thranduil found the peace he deserved, and if it was the last thing he did.

* * *

Elrond of Rivendell was the first and last to offer his aid to the _randirin_. Those too sick or old to travel much further were sent over the High Pass, accompanied by Thranduil and his guard, to find healing and rest in the Last Homely House. But even the fabled valley of Imladris could not provide shelter for them all, so those who stayed behind were still _randirin_. They had decided it was best if Thranduil escorted the sick, for he and Elrond knew each other and used to be friends. When they parted, Thorin felt torn between the wish for Thranduil to return to him, and the desire to let him find peace in Imladris, among his people. And as if he'd read his mind, the elf took his hand and held it, long and firmly, a deep sadness in his eyes.

The following weeks were cold and lonely. Thorin felt lost. His days were filled with outbursts of explosive anger or quiet sobbing. At night he lay silently on his cot, not able to sleep. After a whole month he fell unconscious during a meeting of his council. When he woke up two days later, he was feverish, and even the smell of a meal made him retch. Murmurs and rumours spread in their camp like wildfire. _The king is dying, he is suffering from the radiation sickness, this place is cursed, the Elvenking should never have gone, no, he was the one who poisoned him, it's all their fault, where is he, why is the Elvenking not returning, he has abandoned us, help, help, help!_

When Thranduil finally returned, the dwarves of Erebor were all but rioting. They needed their king, but he was gone, drowned in fever and sickness. Thorin was oblivious to the cool hands caressing his silver-streaked hair, changing the poultices on his brow, forearms and calves. Soft songs lulled his fever-wild mind, and when he became aware of his surroundings again, it was once more the strength in a pair of shining eyes that anchored him to Middle Earth. Words were whispered between them while Thorin recovered; hearts were opened, fears shared and truths spilled. They were clinging to each other, like the lifelines they were. _I need you, stay with me, I cannot go on without you, it is either both of us or none._ And when Thorin stepped out of his shelter to give his people hope, Thranduil kept his hand on his shoulder, not for support, but for reassurance. _Don't go too far, stay with me_. A gesture born of fear and helpless desperation. They only had each other, but for how long? They were at war with life, with the world they lived in, and what an adversary that was.

They shared a shelter after that, and there were rumours about a shared bed as well. Sometimes that was true, but only in those nights, when Thorin woke shivering with nightmare-induced fear, or when Thranduil screamed his son's name. They were kings, the fathers and brothers of their people. They held little children who cried because they were hungry. They kissed the brows of women who lost the strength to go on. They held the hands of soldiers who waited for their last breath. They held each other, for there was no one else to share their own agony with. So who could blame them when touches and embraces turned into kisses, and kisses into more?

The solace of skin on skin, a warm, soft body beside his and silky hair wound around his calloused fingers – while cool fingertips stroked his silver-streaked mane – proved to be enough to make them both go on for another decade. Thorin's nephews grew up to be almost more trouble than they were worth, but everyone loved them fiercely, and perhaps Thranduil coddled them the most, because they somehow reminded him of his dead son. They all dreaded the day the boys would demand to be taught how to shoot a gun. But of course that day came, and it almost broke Thorin's heart to close Fíli's fingers around the handle of his first pistol. Kíli's whining and demanding for his own weapon made him lash out in angry desperation only a week later, and hadn't Thranduil caught his hand and covered his mouth with his cool fingers, he might have done the unspeakable.

_Preserve_, Thranduil hissed into his ear. _Preserve and prepare._

So instead of lessons in shooting and killing, Thorin showed Fíli the horrors of constant war as gently as possible. He showed him the wounded, and let the boy hold a dying soldier's hand during his last hours. At the same time he and Thranduil taught him how to handle what he had seen and go on as a beacon of hope for those he would one day be leading. It sobered Fíli. He cried many times. Some of his childish joy and spirit got lost, but they preserved most of it. When Thorin saw that he was prepared, he resumed his shooting lessons. Fíli handled his first battle with bravery soon afterwards, and when it was time to teach Kíli, he helped to take the edge off the horrors they let his younger brother face. Kíli turned out to be one of the best marksmen they ever had, and it filled Thorin with pride.

The years were taking their toll on the two kings, however, and when Thorin woke up one night and found Thranduil's eyes shut in his sleep, a fresh layer of snow fell on his lithified heart. He gently woke him, tearing him from almost suffocating tendrils of alluring sleep. As an answer, Thranduil only combed his fingers through Thorin's hair, which by now almost consisted of more white and grey than black. They both knew that time was running short. Still they had been searching for a place to call home, but the fields east of the Misty Mountains were as good as any. Maybe it was time for them – and only them – to go on.

They only spoke of this in the privacy of their shelter, in the narrow space between their bodies, where breath mingled with breath. Sometimes a message would come from Lord Elrond. Asking for Thranduil to accompany him to the Havens. So far he refused, even though Thorin asked him, _begged_ him to go. _It is either both of us or none_, Thranduil would say. And once he was frustrated enough to actually send this reply, they didn't expect Lord Elrond's answer to be _yes_. There was a ship being prepared _for them both_.

Dís hit Thorin on the head when they told her. Fíli and Kíli cried, despite being grown up warriors, as they said, and on top of it Fíli was scared, because he was to inherit the crown. There was no heir to Thranduil's crown, only the mute acceptance of his people. They had chosen their king not because they needed one, but because they had wanted one. But the decision had been made, and when Thorin and Thranduil left for the High Pass to join Lord Elrond in Rivendell, many tears fell.

During their journey west to the Grey Havens Thorin noticed for the first time how different Thranduil and his people were from the other elves. Maybe it was their hardship or maybe they had always been different, but while the elves of Imladris rode their white stallions and sang of starlight and green meadows, Thranduil silently marched in his worn-out boots, two guns in his holster, a machine gun on his back and a sharpness in his face that the other elves lacked. When Thorin and Thranduil unashamedly shared a sleeping mat, holding each other during the night, Lord Elrond's elves were scandalised. Most of them shied from talking to them from then on – they had avoided Thorin anyway, for being a dwarf. Lord Elrond was an exception to that, making an effort to try and involve them into conversations. Thorin tried to honour his efforts, while Thranduil just made a habit of staring holes into the elf's head who was unfortunate enough to be talking or singing at the moment. When one night Thorin asked him what was wrong, he answered that _they haven't seen what I've seen, I envy them their happiness and lightness. They think they are scarred by Middle Earth, they think they are too wounded to go on, those hypocrites, but they don't know darkness and hurt as we do. _And as much as it hurt to admit it, Thorin understood.

They were close to the borders of the Shire, when an orc pack ambushed them. They had four elven archers with them, two of which fell in the first exchange of fire. Knowing Thranduil, Thorin quickly sought shelter and started picking off stray orcs – and as predicted, the elf was firing his machine gun into the packed ranks from behind a rock. The skirmish was over before Thorin even had to recharge his pistols and left several dozen dead orcs, four dead elves and a dozen of terrified still living elves. They stared at Thranduil and Thorin, who were covered in black blood and snarling because of the fury burning in their veins.

Lord Elrond took care of a few minor wounds of his elves – _like scattered sheep, look at them_, Thranduil said and Thorin laughed. There were whispers afterwards that they didn't deserve their place on the ship; that they were too dark, too twisted already. Also, they were touched by radiation, who knew what it did to them. Thorin and Thranduil seemingly shrugged those comments off, but in their private space they doubted their decision to sail. What if it didn't stop once they reached their destination? There was no going back from there, and Thorin worried about Thranduil, the glacier in his heart and what would happen to it once there was no black in his hair any more. Their time was running out on so many levels, it hurt to even think about it.

But they reached the Grey Havens, and the sight of the sea stretching out before them, glistening with purity and calmness, made them feel at peace for the first time in decades. Maybe they could stay here. No one had to know. They could choose to be alone instead of being pushed into loneliness. Maybe this was all they needed to heal and live.

And when the ship sailed across golden-red burning water, they weren't watching. Thorin was doing what his people were best at: he was building a house. Just for the two of them. If they hoped enough, maybe the sun would never really set. Maybe Thorin could melt a glacier, maybe silver was more beautiful than black, maybe this particular spot was what they needed instead of golden shores, emerald fields and sapphire lakes. Maybe here their dreams didn't have to be just dreams.

* * *

Centuries later the people of the north told their children a story, a fairy tale of a dwarf and an elf – their names long lost – who lived in a sandstone house, covered in moss and ivy, standing on top of a cliff near the Grey Havens. They say that sometimes, if you listened closely enough you could hear a pair of laughter in the mist – one clear and pearling, the other deep and rumbling. And if you were very lucky, you might even see them: one tall and willowy, the other short and broad, but both with starlight silver hair. But of course elves and dwarves don't exist, and after all this was just a fairy tale. So when people heard deep, rumbling laughter, it was just the rolling waves clashing against the cliffs. And when they saw a tall, pale figure standing on the beach, it was just a beam of moonlight caught in the fog.

* * *

**Author's Note:** So, what do you think?

_randirin_ - derived from _randír_: wanderer + pl. inflection _-in_


End file.
